


The Boys are Drunk

by crimsonwinter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Sherlock - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-11 11:59:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1172809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsonwinter/pseuds/crimsonwinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The four men hit up a bar and get drunk off the bitter alcohol and the heady atmosphere.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Boys are Drunk

"Let’s celebrate!" Lestrade said, smoothing his gloves over the hood of his car.

The three men, John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, and Greg Lestrade stood outside of the police station in the crisp evening air.

Lestrade slapped John on the back, and with a inward chuckle, Sherlock glanced at his friend, who was slightly uncomfortable.

"What did you have in mind?" Watson asked, secretly rubbing his shoulder to soothe the tender skin.

"We should go to a pub!"

The two other men were silent.

"C’mon, it’s nearly Christmas and we haven’t celebrated in so long…" There was a hint of something else in Lestrade’s voice as his excited tone trailed off.

John gave Sherlock a look and received one in response. Sherlock had told John that he would be okay with that, even if John could sense some regret in his countenance.

"Great. Which pub?"

Lestrade directed them to the bar just down the road, through the humming London streets.

"Should we take our car?" Sherlock said, in hopes that Lestrade would sense that carpooling is critical in drinking situations.

John stiffened at the way Sherlock’s mouth curled when he referenced them both, but Lestrade quickly interjected his thought with a grumbling, “No, I can take my car. I’ll meet you there.”

He was eager to go and sunk into his car before either John or Sherlock could respond. The men walked silently back to their car, wondering silently why the silver haired detective was so jumpy to hit the streets.

John slipped into the passenger’s side with a plop, Sherlock leanly climbing in on his right.

The mechanical man drew in a sharp breath and went about starting the car.

John did not speak as the car rumbled and left the police station.

After a few seconds of tense driving, the doctor asked the genius what was wrong.

"Nothing."

"Don’t lie to me."

Sherlock’s grip tightened on the steering wheel and he sunk into himself with the thought of lying to his best friend.

"Gavin…"

"Greg," John corrected him, his eyes following the passing buildings out the window.

"He can get carried away when he drinks." Each word that fell from Sherlock’s lips was sharp, cold, and smart.

John was captivated by the concern in Sherlock’s eyes as he stared straight ahead.

Watson felt like he shouldn’t ask anything else, and sat quietly beside Sherlock in the car.

John felt surreal. The purple sky, yellow lights, and brown buildings all blended into a beautiful view, the city humming and breathing softer in the moonlight. He turned his attention to his partner, who was stiff and at attention.

Sherlock was magnificent. His black, upturned collar gave him a mysterious air while his eyes shone with wit, intelligence, and whimsy.

His strong brow, high cheekbones, sharp nose, and heart shaped lips were prominent and bright, his pale skin contrasting the dark of his curled hair and usual long coat.

John was lost in the fascination of being able to sit so calmly with this tense, broken man. He looked regal, his bony fingers clutching the wheel, his jaw tightening every few seconds.

He was able to sit by such an intimidating man and be nothing less but amazed. He felt like -

John’s thoughts were interrupted with tone of his phone signaling a text.

"Who is it?" Sherlock asked immediately. John smirked. Whenever anybody the two men knew wanted to contact both of them, they messaged either knowing that Sherlock and John would share the information.

"It’s Greg," John began, the light of his phone illuminating his worn face and sad eyes. 

"He says he wonders if we can invite …your brother."

"Why?"

"He didn’t say."

Sherlock furrowed his brows but said, “This is the exit to his street. We can pick him up.”

John questioned Sherlock’s reaction but set about responding to Lestrade and messaging Mycroft, who was just now pulling on a fresh nightshirt.  
Sherlock turned the car off the main road and continued to his brother’s estate.

John had never seen Mycroft in a situation outside of Sherlock and a case, and he was anticipating the older man’s response to the bar scene.

Sherlock hadn’t invited Mycroft out anywhere since before John. That’s how he organized his years: childhood, before John, and John.

He thought it easier for his professional life, although that whispering voice in his mind palace said he created it for a different reason.

John, wearing his usual jean, sweater, jacket combo, and Sherlock, dressed with class, pulled up the long driveway to Mycroft’s estate.

They didn’t get out of the car when they saw the light in the foyer click off and a man dressed in a grey suit come towards them slowly.

John was still trying to figure out why he’d agreed, and why’d he’d even been awake and ready for an adventure. Although, if he was Sherlock’s brother, his sleeping patterns were probably thrown as well.

Without saying hello, Mycroft opened the door and slipped into the backseat.

Sherlock immediately started the engine and drove away from the estate.

John was dazed, nearly laughing outloud at the men’s way of acting around each other. They were either businessmen or eight year old boys. 

Now, they just chugged along like boats in the night, silently bearing the other’s presence.

Finally the sharp air was cracked by a voice. It was Mycroft, he asked about Lestrade.

"His work’s been fine…" John spoke.

"Why did he want you to invite me?"

The doctor glanced at Sherlock, who furrowed his brows even more than they had been before.

"We don’t know. Maybe he just wants to party," John tried to make a joke, but the two brothers weren’t that sort at the moment, and the air became tense again.

John prayed for end, and if the end didn’t come, he prayed for a drink.

He suddenly felt what Lestrade must feel dealing with these two. John had become so used to living and talking to Sherlock that it took nearly everything to tire him. Eventually, they pulled up into the parking lot of the pub, Mycroft hopping out gleefully like a puppy.

John kept trying to get Sherlock’s attention, begging for a glimpse of a smirk. 

The man just left the car, slammed the door, and started walking briskly towards the entrance.

John sighed. He hoped this would go well.

As John tagged behind his alpha, the smell of alcohol and sex hit him full blast, the yellow and green lights of the pub meshing with the barflies at the counter, women in the corners, and friend groups at the tables.

Upon closer inspection, John spotted Mycroft and Lestrade chatting happily at a round table in the corner.

The men balked their small talk as the looming figure of Sherlock appeared, his coat sweeping over the dirty pub floor. 

Lestrade cleared his throat and glanced at Mycroft, who darted his own gaze away.

Sherlock didn’t sit down, and of course, neither did John.

Lestrade cut the silence with a raise of his hand, flagging the busty waitress over.

He ordered a round of beers then forced Sherlock and John to sit opposite each other at the table.

Watson was getting sick of the tension, so he finally spoke up.

"Glad we solved that case."

"Yes," Sherlock snapped, "It was simple. Always check the ashtrays."

John groaned and let his face fall into his hands.

Lestrade and Mycroft were dancing with their glances, stealing a look with quick eyes and darting away when they met.

The waitress waded over and set the four beers on the slimy table. Lestrade took one quickly by the neck and smiled at the waitress. She scooted away between the drinkers.

"Cheers, and happy holidays," Lestrade said, lifting the bottle up as a sign of toast. The other three men took their own drinks and raised them hesitantly. 

John took a swig while Lestrade chugged his down, followed by a polite sip from Mycroft. Sherlock sniffed the open bottle and took a tiny drink, his face contorting.  
"Not very good," he said, swallowing the hard drink.

"You don’t drink," John stated, directing the comment at the man sitting opposite him. Lestrade on his right and Mycroft on his left were tapping their fingers, eager to feel the warmth and tipsiness to hit them.

"No, not much." Sherlock said, fidgeting with the coaster in his fingers. John’s gaze was directed down at his pale hands, who were smoothly rising and falling with the red coaster, the cork slab dancing on the man’s fingertips.

"Ah! Sherlock used to get drunk a lot, before John."

Sherlock’s stomach tightened, “Not a lot.”

Mycroft cut in, “No, you’d just stay up, playing with your chemistry set and drinking wine.”

"Wine?" John smiled, his round face stretching and filling his features with color. He wished he had been there for that, a tipsy Sherlock trying to deduce a case with a wine glass in his hand.

"That was before John," Sherlock said plainly. "Now we focus on cases," 

John swallowed hard at the way Sherlock said his name.

The men continued to sip, chat, and sip some more, each man downing his bottle in a certain way.

John felt strange, sitting with these men. Like he was some ordinary person drinking with three of London’s brightest men. He stopped butting into the conversation for a few minutes as he pondered this thought, and to nobody’s surprise, Sherlock was the first to pick up on it.

"What’s wrong, John?" Sherlock said, his eyes half-lidded, the beer seeming to calm him down and help him relax. He loosened his scarf, the one he never took off, the one that shielded him from ever being vulnerable.

John was unafraid to speak as the alcohol coursed through his veins, making him more honest and lovable than usual.  
"I feel like I can’t compare to you three," he darted his eyes around the group. 

Lestrade was grinning widely, but softened his face into a smirk at John’s words. Mycroft was turning slightly pink and swaying to the pub’s grimy music. He stopped and looked at John with a puzzled face. Sherlock just stared John down. Sherlock wondered why he would say that, for John was the best man he’d ever known. Loyal, intelligent, trustworthy, helpful, and poised.

Sherlock’s cold stare churned John’s stomach, but he continued anyway, “You men are geniuses and detectives and I’m just an ordinary man.”   
He looked down at his hands, the brown bottle slipping loosely through his fingertips.

Lestrade shook his head violently and opened his mouth to release some sloshed wisdom, but Sherlock beat him to it.  
"John, you are most incredible."

Sherlock didn’t break his friend’s eye contact until John did, and even then he took a few extra seconds to soak in his reaction.  
"Thanks," John squeaked.

"Ch-cheers to J-John," Lestrade slurred, raising his bottle. The men clinked their drinks and took a drink, but to Lestrade’s dismay, his was already empty.  
He flagged the waitress down and asked for one more beer.

John looked back at Sherlock, who was less frigid than before but still kept his walls high.

The waitress began to sway her hips as she walked away but turned around to take John’s order.

He had called to her and decided to order some shots. 

John was wryly smiling at the thought of drunk Sherlock, and even if he was anything but a lightweight, shots always kicked it up a notch.

Sherlock gave John and look with wide eyes which would’ve scared anyone else. John just chuckled and took another drink, Mycroft still swerving his head to the loud music.

John clinked his bottle to Mycroft’s as a sign to take another drink, which he did, Lestrade’s gaze tearing Sherlock’s brother to pieces as he sipped.

A few minutes later, the waitress came back with Lestrade’s extra beer and four shots that were blended with a fruity concoction. 

Greg dug into his beer quickly, each second causing him to slip deeper into drunken stupor. He got a quarter through the bottle before he caught the judgmental looks of his three friends.

Sherlock was cool and collected while his brother tried to pronounce the word “google” with an accent that wasn’t his nation’s.

His eyes rolled up into his head and he chuckled to himself. 

Mycroft obviously didn’t do this often, and his reaction to the chemical he was drinking caused John to smile. It was extremely pleasing to see someone so high strung make himself laugh with the sound of his own voice.

John tapped each of the men on his sides to attention, while Sherlock’s was on John already.

"One, two, three -" the men took the shot glasses and tipped their heads back to force the drink down.

Sherlock, although reluctant at first, was a sight to behold as he tipped his head, his jaw and neck exposed and pale beneath his loose scarf.

The men continued to drink their beers until the waitress came back once again and asked if they wanted another round. 

Apparently the barflies were betting on which one would confess something first, and although Mycroft seemed to head in that direction, most of the men at the counter hoped it to be Sherlock, which some of them had heard of before. His sharp form seemed to soften with each drink. His sips were also coming more frequently, and soon, Sherlock was onto his second beer, along with John and Mycroft.

Lestrade stood up from the table clumsily, his silver hair shining against the low lights of the bar.

He made his way to the stage at the back of the bar, and while most people cheered and clapped, Sherlock slapped himself in the face with embarrassment. This is what he was fearing.

John, however, began to feel warm and friendly and accepting, and he cheered the man on as he stumbled over the stairs and drunkenly grabbed the microphone.  
He tapped it, the echoing sound snapping everyone’s attention to the stage.

"H-hic-hullo," he said into the mic, his lips brushing the surface. "Can I s-sing some P-Paula Abdul?"

The rest of the bar cheered at his request, and John looked quizzically with a huge smile at Sherlock, who smirked dryly. Maybe this could be fun.

The man behind the counter clicked on Paula’s number one, and as Lestrade sang along sloppily, Mycroft rocked out from his chair, which was now turned around to face the stage.

The entire pub was laughing at this man’s song choice, but began to jam once he got on track and hit every note and lyric of the chorus.

Soon, the pub was singing along, most of the women adding some sexualized dance moves for their dates.

Mycroft lifted his beer hand to his mouth, furrowed his brow, and switched to his open hand, which he stupidly cupped around his mouth as he prepared to shout.  
"Yeah, that’s right, show ‘em baby!"

Lestrade pointed to the direction of the voice from onstage, the lights which had clicked on blurring his vision.

"I l-love you," he chirped in between lyrics. 

John gaped and began to cackle loudly. He remembered that Mycroft’s brother sat at the table with him and looked over.

Sherlock had his head on his hands, his tall figure hunched over onto the table in mortification.

John, now feeling the full effect of both beers and the shot, hummed to himself.

Although two beers weren’t a lot to become completely intoxicated, it was also the atmosphere that had affected John. 

Being with Sherlock always left him a little dazed, so the extra dopamine coursing through his brain only increased his hidden affections.

John prodded Sherlock’s foot with his, to which Sherlock looked up and into his friend’s worried face.

Sherlock smiled, the drinks beginning to affect him as well.

Sherlock pointed to the door, and John nodded, standing up (nearly knocking his chair over) and maneuvering through Lestrade’s fans.

He checked to see if Sherlock was following him, and to his dismay, Sherlock was still shaking his head in his hands at the table.

John tripped over someone who was also standing up from their table while his head was turned, and he stumbled to the ground.

He went to pick himself up but two strong, warm hands wrapped around his biceps and pulled him up.

While the man was cursing at John, the hands pushed him out the pub’s door and into the parking lot quickly.

John dusted himself off, his head spinning and pounding with both pain and excitement.

"Wh-"

"John," Sherlock spun John around and looked in his nearly closed eyes.

The tall man in the dark clothes didn’t frighten John, in fact, the sight of him was comforting.

Sherlock was a tad sloshed, and his deductions weren’t crisp and pure, but he knew John well enough to see that John was upset at something.

"John, tell me what’s wrong," Sherlock said, still gripping his arms.

John opened his eyes, Sherlock’s face right in front of him, a touch of concern in his wide eyes.

His eyes, which were sometimes dark blue, sometimes the lightest green, most times: beautiful.

John smiled, “Nothing, I’m fine.”

He tried to wiggle out of Sherlock’s grasp, but Sherlock’s large hands tightened roughly and caused an unwanted shock of arousal to course from John’s neck down to his core.

He became aware of what he felt and suddenly snapped to attention.

Sherlock tried to deduce what had happened, and he finally let John go, the doctor’s arms pounding from the rough contact.

"Tell me what’s wrong," Sherlock walked to a shady corner of the parking lot, John tagging right behind.

"You tell me first," John responded, the tip of his nose beginning to turn pink as thoughts of rough, dominating Sherlock trickled into his mind. "I’m not g-gay," John muttered under his breath to himself.

Sherlock didn’t hear him and finally stopped, turning around to face John once again.

"I found out about Mycroft and Lestrade a while ago, I deduced it and…"

"You’re embarrassed?"

"A bit - "

"Wait, is Sherlock Holmes concerned for someone else? Are you afraid that Lestrade will hurt your brother?"

Sherlock looked down at John’s shoes, accidentally spotting his crotch on his journey back up to his eyes.

"And the other way ‘round."

John’s heart leapt at the thought that Sherlock could care for someone’s happiness. He thought that now he knew of his brother’s romance, he would witness it first hand.

Sherlock had an example of a relationship in front of him. 

John’s mind churned, Sherlock had an example of a gay relationship in front of him.

Sherlock had an example of two respected, older men falling in love in front of him.

John swallowed his glee down his dry throat, the alcohol sapping every bit of moisture from his lips. Sherlock knew that these things happened, so he wasn’t clueless…

Did he know how it worked? John did. He shook thoughts away as he remembered it was Mycroft and Greg doing such a thing, and he instantly turned his attention back to the saddened face of his friend.

"Don’t tell them I know."

John nodded.

"Will you help me?"

"With what?" John admired the way Sherlock looked against the dark sky, his high cheekbones reflecting the moonlight with pale beauty.

"Will you help me keep an eye on them?"

John played with his hands, Sherlock’s completely human reaction to his brother’s happiness causing John to smile in wonderment, “Of course.”

Sherlock began to smirk but it turned into a wide smile before he could stop it.

The men were at a loss for words as they fell deeper into the other’s eyes.

Sherlock cleared his throat, “Now you tell me what was upsetting you.”

"Oh," John shuffled his feet around the rough cement road, his hands now in his pockets, "I just didn’t want things to change after tonight."

"John," Sherlock touched John’s face, something he’d never have done if he were sober. John liked it and let the intelligent detective pull his jaw up to meet his gaze.

"Things aren’t going to change." Sherlock spoke slowly, accidentally circling his thumb around John’s lower cheek.

John felt that surreal feeling again as he counted the colors in Sherlock’s eyes. The men were nearly close enough to start leaning in for a kiss, but a low “Hey!” snapped them back into reality.

"Guys, where’dja go?" Lestrade stumbled towards them, Mycroft following close behind, holding Lestrade’s jacket in the bend of his arm

The two men, who were standing in the corner of a parking lot outside of a pub, not floating through cosmic space as it had felt half a second ago scooted away from each other and joined the other two men without a word.

"Wurr'ya just out for air?" Lestrade shouted loudly.

As they walked back inside, Lestrade boasted about his Paula Abdul jam and how he even started a dance party in the center of the bar.

He was exuberant and excited, happily chatting away, John and Sherlock on either side, Mycroft humming peacefully to himself not far behind.

John and Sherlock stole a look at one another around the back of Lestrade’s head.

Sherlock’s lips tugged into a small grin and the corners of John’s eyes crinkled with joy.

The men would be okay.

Things weren’t going to change.


End file.
